


Kick Our Ashes

by AkiRah



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: A vague follow-up to "They Always Send Assassins", F/M, Genderqueer Hawke - Freeform, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, Purple Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 15:44:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10363932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkiRah/pseuds/AkiRah
Summary: Bianca Davri is killed in an "accident" (dwarf politics in relation to the vote to make her a paragon, not that that comes up) some years after the events of Dragon Age: Inquisition. Varric grieves, is comforted, grieves more, and receives her last wishes.





	

Varric Tethras was expressly not invited to the funeral. The Davris had held their _opinions_ about him during Bianca’s life and her death had not improved them. Varric’s spy network was vast and attached to others and so it wasn’t hard for him to figure out what had happened. An “accident” while she was working, one all together too stupid to have been Bianca’s fault.  
  
He found those responsible and he ended them in person. Varric did not _enjoy_ violence, but in this case, he allowed himself a small sliver of righteousness as the assassin tried to gurgle around the crossbow bolt in his neck.  
  
And then he told Bran he was taking a short vacation, needed a break from being Viscount for a few days, and booked passage to Orlais.  
  
Hawke was waiting at the boat, their expression grim and their arms crossed over their chest. “Where are we going?”  
  
“Orlais.” Varric leaned against the railing. “For a funeral.”  
  
Hawke’s expression narrowed with concern, but they didn’t say anything. Instead they leaned backwards against the rail and looked up at the sky. “Well, that’ll be fun.”  
  
Varric managed a small, broken snort. He’d been out of tears for most of a week but they’d replenish soon enough and he cry for her again.  
  
And again.  
  
And again.  
  
For the rest of his life probably.  
  
He took a half-step closer to Hawke and closed his eyes as Hawke’s hand settled on his arm.  
  
“ _Shit._ ” Varric spat the word into the wood and hunched his shoulders, tears leaking out of his eyes. Hawke turned and wrapped one arm around Varric’s broad shoulders.  
“Can I help?”  
  
Varric shook his head. “Just glad you’re here, Hawke.”  
  
“You’re more interesting than everyone else.” Hawke nuzzled the top of Varric’s head with their cheek. “And I like you more than I like them.”  
  
“Broody’ll pout.”  
  
“Eh, fuck ‘im.” Hawke said with a dismissive snort about the man they were in love with and tightened their arm around Varric’s shoulders. “True love is great and all, but Fenris is not my best friend. I’m with you, Varric. Whatever you need and now more than ever.”  
  
Varric sniffled and managed a grunted, “thanks” in an attempt to not sound like he was crying.  
  
He was _definitely_ crying.

* * *

Despite having gone in disguise, _someone_ must have recognized Varric at the funeral because they were attacked on the docks while booking passage back to Kirkwall. Whatever the assassins had been prepared for, it hadn’t been Hawke. Fire and force bent to their will and knocked immolated dwarves into the Waking Sea. Varric got one in the chest with Bianca and one in the stomach with his boot before pulling the trigger a second time.  
  
“Varric?”  
  
“Still can’t tell you,” Varric sighed, sounding more tired than anything else. “A promise is a promise, even if she’s--”  
  
Hawke nodded. “I’m putting it together myself, slow as I am. You alright?”  
  
“Shit,” Varric managed the smallest of smiles. _this_ part I’m used to.”  
  
“Next time Fenris complains that I’m “high maintenance” you’re allowed to tell him that at least assassins don’t follow him home from seeing _his_ girlfriend.” Hawke nudged Varric with their shoulder.  
  
“Weren’t you running away from an Exalted March, Hawke, or did I make that up?” He wanted to be angry, they were so _flippant_ , even now. Hawke made light of almost everything. But, by the same token, Hawke made _light_ out of almost everything. Something to see by even when it was dark.  
  
“It was just the _rumor_ of an Exalted March. Also. Point.” They scanned the horizon. “I’m gonna suggest we share a cabin, to save on cash and, more importantly, our ability to bottleneck motherfuckers if they try anything again.”

* * *

Back in Kirkwall, he was Viscount. Varric looked at his horrible, pointy hat and decided, for the hundredth time, that he wasn’t going to wear it. He looked at his horrible, uncomfortable chair and decided, for the hundredth time, that he wasn’t going to sit in it. He padded on short legs to the armchair he’d brought from the hanged man and the desk he’d had built for a dwarf instead of a human and stared balefully at the stacks of paper that awaited him until the wax seal on a scroll case caught his attention.  
  
Scratched with painstaking detail into the green wax was his Bianca (the Crossbow). He blinked and picked it up hesitantly and turned it in his hands, checking for mechanisms of any sort. He shook it and something inside shifted.  
  
Varric pointed the tube away from him and twisted the top, breaking the seal. Nothing happened. He popped the cap off and nothing happened.  
  
“Ah, my lord.” Bran interrupted him. “You’ve received a . . . package.”  
  
Varric turned and Bran was carrying a small urn, maybe the size of a large tankard.  
  
Varric stared at it. “Just. . . leave it on the desk.”  
  
“I see you’re actually opening your mail,” Bran sounded _almost_ pleased underneath his natural exasperation.  
  
“Don’t get your hopes up. Choir Boy’s letters go right in the fire.”  
  
Bran sighed, but nodded, turned and left.  
  
Varric studied the urn. It was dwarven, that was clear from the design and the heft when he lifted it. Varric turned back to the now-open scroll case in his hand. Who sent scrolls any more anyway?  
  
He turned it and carefully dumped the contents --a letter and an earring-- into his palm. The earring was familiar, it matched his. His heart swelled and felt like it was going to burst, a painful balloon in his chest. She’d never worn it, but she’d kept it. A stupid present from when they were stupid kids. He squeezed it in his fist and kissed his knuckle, nearly shaking with the effort of maintaining a semblance of composure.  
  
The letter was in two parts.

> To: Mr. Varric Tethras.  
>  In accordance with the wishes of Mrs. Bianca Davri, we have delivered the following letter, adornment and her remains.  
>  With Andraste’s Blessing  
>  Sister Abella, Val Royeaux’s Grand Cathedral

  
The second sheet was from Bianca herself. 

> Varric,  
>  Mix mine with yours and they can kick us both.  
>  B

Varric stared at the wet spot on the letter, the one that had landed right beside her initial and was spreading out to smear the ink. Despite the drop and the ones that followed, he caught himself smiling, picturing the rebellious chantry sisters who must have smuggled the body away from her parents.  
  
Of course he hadn’t noticed at the funeral. He and Hawke had been near the back, hiding, watching them bury _something_. Her family had been too proud to admit that she’d asked to be cremated. That with one last, blazing act of defiance (pun intended) she’d chosen him.  
  
Varric laughed.  
  
And decided that when he joined Bianca in that urn, _their_ urn, their bed, the sisters could bury them.  
  
Just to keep things fair.

**Author's Note:**

> Guys I just have a lot of feelings about Varric.


End file.
